The Day - Geoffrey Brock

 

It hangs on its

                stem like a plum

at the edge of a

               darkening thicket.

 

It’s swelling and

               blushing and ripe

and I reach out a

               hand to pick it

 

but flesh moves

               slow through time

and evening

               comes on fast

 

and just when I

               think my fingers

might seize that

               sweetness at last

 

the gentlest of

               breezes rises

and the plum lets

               go of   the stem.

 

And now it’s my

               fingers ripening

and evening that’s

               reaching for them.